


red (and terrible and red)

by xylodemon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean thinks he'd rather she just kill him, but he's never been that lucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red (and terrible and red)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [red (and terrible and red)/красный (цвет крови и ужаса)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1560665) by [Smoking_breath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smoking_breath/pseuds/Smoking_breath)



> Warnings: non-con, mild humiliation, and kinda/sorta dirty talk of the 'you know you want it' variety. Vague spoilers for 9x02.

Dean woke to a dull pain in his head and the taste of blood in his mouth, his vision swimming a little as his eyes adjusted to the shitty light. The last thing he remembered was getting stuffed into the backseat of his own car by a big guy who'd reeked of sulfur and hadn't cared too much about bruising the merchandise; he was inside some kind of building now, a place that looked and smelled like an abandoned warehouse. He wasn't tied to the chair he was sitting on, but he couldn't move anything more dangerous than his eyebrows. That meant serious demon mojo, and knowing his luck, that also meant -- 

"You've been hiding from me, lover."

\-- Abaddon.

"You shouldn't do things like that." She sounded like she was behind him, behind and a few feet to his left; anger and anticipation curled in his gut like a snake. "It makes a girl feel unwanted."

"Don't take it personally. You're just not my type."

"From what I've heard, _breathing_ is usually your type."

Dean jerked against the mojo, testing its strength. The good news was, he could twitch his fingers slightly, and he could turn his head about an inch in either direction. "I gotta say, I'm kind of surprised. I mean, jumping a guy at the Gas & Sip in broad daylight -- that seems a little sloppy for a hellbitch as high on the food chain as you."

"Desperate times."

"You don't strike me as someone who does desperate."

"I'll admit, it isn't my usual style, but you're a hard man to find." She moved closer to him, her sulfur-stench laced with vanilla and her boots clacking sharply against the concrete floor. "You should be flattered."

"Oh, believe me. I am. I just don't get it," Dean said. He strained against the mojo again, grimacing as his foot skittered into a puddle of what he hoped was water. "This is a lot of trouble for one lousy hunter. What is it you want so badly?"

"I've already told you."

Dean snorted. "What, Crowley? That limey bastard isn't worth all the time you're wasting on him. Unless," he paused, letting a leer crawl over his voice, "unless it's personal. Were you two crazy kids an item back in the Dark Ages? Is this just some weird, fire-and-brimstone breakup thing?"

"I do want Crowley," she admitted, stepping out of the shadows and into his line of sight. She looked the same as she had that day at the chemical plant, black pants and a black jacket and a smug smile on her Betty Crocker face. "I also want that angel you brought to our last playdate, and the prophet you've been hiding from Heaven." She leaned over Dean, all red hair and cleavage, and he made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, tipping his head back as far as he could. Between the demon mojo and the hand cradling his jaw, it wasn't far enough. "But mostly, I want you."

"We've been over this, sweetheart. You're not my type."

She laughed at that, throaty and low, then tugged at the collar of his shirt, tracing her finger around the edges of his tattoo. "I will be. And, once I slip inside you, I'll get _everything_ I want -- Crowley, the angel, the prophet, even your precious baby brother." She nudged in even closer, brushing her mouth against his ear, her tongue just barely touching his skin. "All these years, Sam has trusted you to protect him. Can you imagine the look on his face when _your_ hands reach up and snap his neck?"

"Bitch."

"Or when he wakes up one morning and finds you standing over his bed with a knife?"

Dean snorted again, louder; he hoped his bravado held out long enough for Sam or Kevin to realize he was missing. "It wouldn't work."

"Oh?" She slid into his lap, straddling his thighs and digging her fingers into his arms hard enough to bruise. "And why not?"

"Sam's way too smart for a stupid trick like that. We've lived in each other's pockets all our lives. He'd know something was off about me the minute you walked my meatsuit through the door."

"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, I get to kill him wearing your face."

"Maybe, maybe not," Dean mimicked, gritting his teeth as she sucked a slow, wet mark into the skin below his ear. "There's a lot about my brother you don't know."

"I know he can't kill me."

Dean smiled at her, all bluster and false charm. "Not by himself, no." Telling her the truth was a gamble he didn't want to take, but she might kill him if she got bored, or try to separate him from his tattoo, and he was quickly running out of the kind of small talk that would keep her attention. "But that angel you want, he's currently riding shotgun in Sam's skull, and that dude -- _he_ could send you back downstairs so fast your demonic ass would get whiplash."

"Really." She tilted her head to the side, then slid her hand up to the curve of his neck, pressing her thumb against his windpipe just hard enough that he sucked in a breath on reflex. "Does that turn you on? Thinking about me rotting in Hell?"

"Don't feel special, sweetheart. The idea of Crowley roasting in the furnace for eternity does it for me, too."

She made a noise in the back of her throat, half irritated and half amused, then leaned in and kissed him, all tongue and teeth and her thumbnail digging a bloody mark into the hinge of his jaw. He expected a sudden flood of sulfur, but she tasted like every other woman he'd kissed, just lipstick and spit and girl, and he couldn't get away from it, at least not far enough; she chased after him when he jerked his head back, humming into his mouth, curling her tongue against his and catching her teeth on the well of his lip.

"You won't take 'not my type' for an answer, will you?"

She ran her hand down his chest, then slowly brushed her knuckles over his crotch. He'd been half hard since she first crawled into his lap; he should've known better than to waste time hoping she wouldn't notice. "This is telling me a different story."

"Stop it."

"I've thought about it -- about taking your body for a ride before I finally jump into it." She cupped his dick and rubbed, unwanted pressure from the heel of her hand. "It's been a long time since I've had any fun."

"I've gotta tell you, you've got some weird ideas about fun."

She leaned in for another kiss, laughing low in her throat when he twisted his face away, then popped his fly and wrapped her hand around his dick. "You can get angry if you want, but you'll still come for me, nice and pretty."

The sick part was, she wasn't wrong; he could already feel it building, a low clench in his gut and a flare of heat between his legs. He didn't want it, but he was too frayed and exhausted to fight it off, worn thin from weeks of looking for Cas and worrying about Sam and Kevin.

"Let it go, lover. I won't tell anyone," she said, mouthing at his neck as she stroked his dick. She twisted her wrist as she worked her hand up, letting her thumb rub over the head, and Dean choked back the noise building in his throat, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. "It'll be our secret. I'm sure I'll look back on it fondly when I'm riding around in your skin."

Dean came with a sharp breath, his eyes closed and his face turned as far away from Abaddon as he could manage. She touched him through it, and then after, until it was nearly too much, then smeared her messy hand over his cheek, pressing her thumb against his lips until he was forced to taste himself, salty and sour.

The warehouse was silent; Dean could hear water dripping somewhere behind him. Abaddon opened her mouth, ready with a fresh set of taunts, but there was a sudden commotion in the next room, footsteps and shouting and the crackling buzz of Ruby's knife. 

"I think that's the cavalry," Dean said tiredly. He wanted nothing more than to watch her die, but he didn't need her spilling Ezekiel's beans in Sam's lap just yet. "You might want to get out of here. My brother's copilot tends to smite first and ask questions later."

"The next time I see you, I'm cramming myself down your throat."

"Don't talk dirty. It makes you sound like a whore."

She kissed him again, hard and fast, biting at his lip until it split under her teeth, then blipped out as softly and effortlessly as an angel.

"Dean?" Sam asked, frowning as he came through the door. He had Ruby's knife in one hand and a dark bruise blooming purple on his cheek. "Are you all right?"

Dean had blood in his mouth and come on his face. He wanted to puke, needed a drink.

"Yeah, Sammy," he said. "I'm fine."


End file.
